


Flies in the Ointment

by ScreamingViking



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScreamingViking/pseuds/ScreamingViking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki wakes in a dungeon with strange magic flaring in his palm. Thedas had changed a great deal since Asgard last had dealings with Arlathan, but not so much that Loki doesn't recognize Solas for what he really is. The Inquisition, as formed by two competing Tricksters, while the rest of Thedas scrambles to keep up.</p><p>"We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

The air stilled, the birds and wildlife grew silent, even the braying of Mabari hounds died away.

A grim smile stretched over Solas' face.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes loomed further up the mountain, where the Templars, Mages, and Divine Justinia thought to decide the future of Thedas. He wasn't here for any of that.

He had ventured this high into the Frostback Mountains following a faint trail of magic, his own magic in fact, albeit much older and more powerful than what he currently wielded. He had expected the magister responsible to attempt to open the Orb sooner than this, but the result would be the same nonetheless. The foolish human would unlock the Orb, and the full brunt of Solas' old power would rush out and destroy the man, leaving the Orb open for him to reclaim. A simple solution for two inconvenient problems.

Magical tension hung in the air, the sensation of the Veil stretching to hold back large amounts of magic. Not enough that the short lived-humans or elves would notice, but he knew the signs very well. Somebody was attempting a truly massive spell.

He found a convenient rock that wasn't completely covered in snow and made himself comfortable. Nobody would see him while he waited.

It wouldn't be long now.

A sharp whine cut through the air. His eyes snapped up to the temple, and a question formed on his lips.

A second later, there was a violent spike of green light in the sky and a deafening roar. An explosion tore across the Veil and shook the very earth, sending a massive shock wave that threw him back over the boulder.

He landed in a snow drift, several metres behind the rock. He lifted his head and spat out a mouthful of snow, his head ringing and his eyesight spotty from the blast.

Blinking away the dark spots in his vision, he looked up and froze. Suspended high above the now smouldering wreckage of the temple was a pulsing green hole in the Veil, the sky itself torn asunder. Demons screamed and cackled as they poured into the physical world.

This… was not the plan.

* * *

Pain stabbed at Loki's hand and his eyes shot open. A green flash of power sparked again in his hand, and he gasped in pain. Foreign magic thrummed through his veins, starting in his palm and spiking up his arm.

What was this? Where was he? How did he get here?

He had fallen from the Bifrost.  _Jumped, let go, given up_  – his mind accused. He ignored it. He was ignoring a good many truths right now – Midgard had once called him the god of lies, a fitting mantle – the truth was far too painful for his taste.

After his fall –  _jump_  – he had drifted through the void for what he had assumed would be eternity. Yet now he was on his knees, with a strange magic anchored to his hand and his own magic barely responding.

He looked up, but stilled when the points of several swords pushed against his throat.

Human guards held the blades, each trying to stay as far away from him as possible. Beyond them torchlight flickered across the walls of a stone dungeon. He crouched on rough-hewn floor with his wrists trapped in large and cumbersome manacles. Water dripped from melting icicles, while howling wind and muffled cries drifted in through the grate overhead.

Next to him knelt a tattooed elf. There were dark rings around her eyes and her hands were tied with simple rope but she was gagged with a filthy rag. They had attempted no such indignity with him. She was glaring at him like a cornered bilgesnipe.

Was this Alfheim then, or Midgard? He hoped for Midgard, mortals were a nuisance, but they were easily dealt with, when necessary. The immortal light elves, on the other hand, were as hardy as Asgardians and had  _very_  long memories. The scars had finally faded from his last adventure there, and he didn't want them replaced.

The green magic in his hand flashed again. He clenched his teeth and refused to cry out in pain. Whoever had done this to him would pay dearly.

Before he could inquire as to his whereabouts – or simply stand and fight his way out – the door before him swung open.

Two humans entered, one marching in heavy plate armour, the other gliding gracefully in a hood and fine chainmail. Strange, he had thought humanity had finally developed beyond such a simple class of warfare. Clearly, he had overestimated them.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now," the one in heavy armour demanded with a harsh accent. She was scowling and readily stood far closer than the guards had dared to. Anger and confusion warred in her eyes. Her hand stayed on the hilt of her sword though – afraid, despite her posturing.

"That is a very good question," he murmured, rolling his shoulders and finding most of his knives missing from their sheaths. His eyes narrowed and followed her as she stalked a path around him, absorbing as many details as he could from her appearance. She bore clear heraldry, but he didn't recognise any of it. Perhaps he could break out with sheer force… but his escape would be easier if he could convince them to help.

"Who are you?" the second woman asked, her voice hard despite her lilting accent. She didn't step forward into the clearer light as the first had; she lurked further back and pinned him with intelligent eyes.

He didn't reply. He would need more information before he was prepared to commit himself to an identity.

"I will tell you then, if you will not say," the first woman began, standing up straight as she declared her judgement. "You are a Tevinter assassin, and this your accomplice." She gestured to the elf, who looked highly indignant at being brought into the conversation. "You have murdered the Divine, and everyone else!"

"I haven't murdered anyone."  _Yet._  There was still plenty of time. "I am no one's assassin."

"Then how do you explain this?" She grabbed his hand and the green magic flared. He winced before he could stop himself and glared down at the evidence of foreign magic. His own power was failing to shield him from it. In fact, his own magic was barely moving at all and his reserves felt nearly drained. He swallowed back his alarm. He didn't remember this magic being burned into him, but he should have. It wasn't a small thing; it was the ragged end of something far more powerful, snapped off inside him like a rusted blade left in the wound.

Why couldn't he remember?

The elf, who had been gnawing on her gag, finally managed to wrestle her way out of it and the rags fell around her neck.

"I am not his accomplice!" she spat, her accent strong and rolling, like the rush of a river flooded with a spring melt. "I told you that from the start!"

"Why should we believe you?" the armoured human asked.

"I'm Dalish! I would embrace the Dread Wolf before I worked for some Tevinter Shemlen," she spat, the last words directed at him, her glare never wavering.

He had no idea what he was being accused of or what on Asgard she was actually talking about.

"Hundreds are dead from the explosion, including the Divine. The two of you are the only survivors," the woman in chainmail and shadows said quietly. "Someone is responsible."

The unspoken accusation hung in the air. Loki needed to act before they arrived at their own conclusions.

"What happened?" he asked, looking up earnestly. He didn't have to fake his confusion. "What could unleash such... such devastation?"

"As though you do not know!" the one in heavy armour cried, towering over him and grabbing the edge of his armour. He tensed, a magical attack building in his mind. She was more insulting than threatening, but his temper was short.

"Cassandra," the other woman snapped, grabbing her arm. "We need him."

Cassandra scowled, made a disgusted noise and turned away from him. She stepped away before spinning back to face him.

"What were you doing at the Conclave?" she demanded.

"I… I don't remember." It was an embarrassment that it was actually true.

"What happened to your hand?"

"I don't remember," he ground out.

"What is your name?"

He paused. Cassandra raised an eyebrow at him.

"You don't remember?"

He made a decision and straightened his back, looking her in the eye. The effect wasn't as commanding as it should have been, since he was still on his knees, but he could make it work.

"That I do remember. I am Loki Odinson," he declared.  _No you aren't,_ the back of his mind whispered. He ignored it again. Nobody else knew that, so he was fully prepared to take advantage of his former position, however fabricated.

There wasn't the smallest hint of recognition in the eyes of his captors. He looked between them, searching for any reaction. They just nodded and looked at the elf. That said far more about his whereabouts than anything else. Who hadn't heard of him? Who hadn't heard of  _Odin_?

"Lavellan," the elf said shortly, refusing to introduce herself further. She achieved the impressive task of looking down her nose at them despite being significantly closer to the ground.

"What has happened?" he repeated.

The two women exchanged a glance. Cassandra eventually let out a heavy breath.

"It will be easier to show you. Leliana, go to the forward camp," she said. "Take the elf, I will follow with the other."

Leliana hauled the elf – Lavellan – to her feet. She appeared unable to decide who she was more interested in glaring at and stumbled with exhaustion on her way out.

Cassandra led him out soon after, replacing the heavy manacles with rope – which he could easily snap, butshe didn't need to know that.

As soon as they were outside, he froze at the sight far above them.

The sky itself was torn open, like the fabric of reality had been split asunder and magic and spirits poured forth freely in a green torrent. It looked like a massive sparking wound, bleeding down upon the world.

"We call it the Breach. It's a rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It's not the only one, just the largest," Cassandra said, staring up at it with him.

The Breach pulsed with green energy, growing larger. The magic in his hand flared in response, making him cry out and sending him to his knees. The pain thrummed up his arm with greater strength than before, and he closed his eyes to brace himself against it. She crouched down in front of him.

"Each time the breach expands, your mark spreads," she said, surprisingly gentle. "And it is killing you."

His eyes shot open. He glared up at the Breach and then down at his hand again.

No. He had may have already fallen –  _jumped_  – through the void and lost all those who called him family, but he wasn't going to be destroyed so easily. Magic was his area of strength, and he was not to be taken so lightly.

"You may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time," Cassandra said.

"I'll do it. I will stop this." He stared up at the Breach in challenge. "Whatever it takes."

* * *

Solas dodged a swipe from a rage demon and sent out a blast of ice small rift that had opened on the path up to the wreckage of the temple was nothing in comparison to the giant Breach, but he still could not seal it, and demons continually poured through.

Varric and his crossbow kept them from swamping him, and he in turn cast a barrier over the strange dwarf. It was hardly enough, not before an endless torrent of enemies, but they could not simply give in and be slain.

He swung at a demon of envy with his staff, the thing shrieking wildly, its long limbs grasping. He threw a simple spirit bolt, hoping to drive it back. A bolt of lightning struck the demon from behind and it collapsed, twitching helplessly.

Into its place stepped the man with the green magical anchor flaring within his hand. Cassandra scowled fiercely behind him. She probably thought he was a human.

Solas didn't hesitate; he grabbed the Asgardian's hand and held it up towards the little rift, pouring just enough of his own magic into the anchor to stabilise it. The rift crackled with the rush of power. The Asgardian struggled at first, but he must have felt the change in his hand because he stilled and stared at Solas.

The rift snapped shut.

"Thedas," the Asgardian murmured under his breath, realisation in his eyes. Then he fixed a piercing look on Solas. The others must have assumed it was a curse at the sight of the rift.

"What did you do, elf?" the he demanded, his voice calm but filled with suspicion.

There was recognition in the Asgardian's eyes and his head was tilted in sharp interest. The look in his eye reminded Solas uncomfortably of his own reflection millennia ago.

Silence fell over the stretch of path, the roar of the rift finally gone.

" _I_  did nothing," Solas replied with a disarming smile. "The credit is yours."

"How exceedingly generous of you," he said, giving a flat and unconvinced smile in return. Of course the Asgardian knew that Solas was responsible, he would have felt his power calming the anchor. If he knew anything at all about such magic, and his smile said that he did, then he could have no doubt as to the nature of the anchor and the Breach itself – and who was ultimately responsible.

Cassandra was returning her shield to her back and failed to notice the Asgardian's sarcasm. She must have decided he wasn't an immediate threat because not only was he not bound, but he was also carrying two long Ferelden daggers.

"Your prisoner is a mage, Cassandra, but the mark is not his own power," Solas said, facing her but keeping the Asgardian in his peripheral vision. "Indeed, I find it hard to imagine any mage such as he wielding this power. It is certainly far beyond his capabilities."

The man narrowed his eyes at him, and his smile turned sharp and predatory."I have never before seen its like," he said, affecting a puzzled tone, "but you seem very familiar with it."

"This is Solas," Cassandra began, "an apostate who was in the area. He watched over you while you were unconscious, studying the mark and trying to calm it down. He probably saved your life."

"How fortunate he was near at hand," he said pleasantly, his eyes still narrowed.

"I am glad to see you alive and well" Solas let his voice carry a sharp tone. "Let us hope it lasts."

"Me being alive, or you being glad for it?" he replied with a raised eyebrow.

"The two of you know each other?" Varric asked, looking between the two of them curiously. The dwarf had returned his crossbow to his back and was studying them both.

"Not at all," the Asgardian said, "I am Loki Odinson." He bowed his head formally at them both, and Solas gave a brittle smile in return.

 _Odinson_. Had there not been enough disasters already today?

"I'm Varric Tethras. Rogue, story teller, and unwelcome tagalong," Varric said with an easy smile. "So, we've finally put a name to our mysterious prisoner. Tell us, are you actually from Tevinter? An assassin for the Black Divine?"

Loki snorted. "I am none of those things."

"See?" Varric said, looking at Cassandra. She scowled back.

"Do you have family in the area, Odinson?" Solas asked.

"Perhaps. I don't remember," Loki replied innocently.

"Enough. We must press on," Cassandra said, leading the way up to the temple and the Breach.


	2. The Culprit

"You tire easily, Odinson." Solas said as they all trudged up the snow covered slope. “Do your injuries pain you?”

Loki very much wanted to throw something at him. He wasn’t falling behind by any means, but he was breathing hard in the mountain air. No self-respecting Asgardian should have been wearied by this; they weren’t even at the top yet.

He shouldn’t have been this weak, but as he’d discovered once he’d joined the fight against the demons, half his power was missing. What little remained was drained from trying to stop the anchor from killing him. Once Solas had touched it the anchor had calmed dramatically, but he was still exhausted from the pressure.

"Please, call me Loki, Solas. Or do you prefer _chuckles_?" He replied, with a snide smile. Behind him Varric laughed and Cassandra made a noise of disgust. "And you're just as tired. What's your excuse?"

"I have been tending to you for the last three days." Solas walked with his staff in his hand, using the carved lyrium infused weapon as a walking stick.

"And yet I am still weak and injured." Loki said.

"A wonder you are not dead. What sort of human could survive such power?” he asked with an air of innocent curiosity.

“What sort of elf could comprehend it?” he replied in kind, a smile on his face.

“Alright, really?” Varric said, “The two of you have never met before?”

Before Loki could deny it, or perhaps not deny it and completely blow the ancient elf’s cover, they arrived at the Forward camp. Leliana was arguing in the midst of a flock of squawking humans. The poorly defended encampment was filled with them, and they quarrelled over Loki’s supposed guilt and petty human politics. Some blamed Lavellan; apparently it was more believable to them that an elf was responsible.

Nobody thought to blame Solas. How very curious.

Apparently they stood upon the wreckage of a religious site, and it was a religious figurehead that had been murdered. Loki was fairly certain he wasn’t responsible. He looked around in curiosity, trying to make sense of the smouldering ruin before him and the green Breach above.

This realm was Thedas, he had figured that much out. But it didn’t look anything like Frigga’s descriptions, given to him so very long ago.  The stories had told of spires of crystal, magnificent temples, and floating fortresses couched on cloud and magic. There weren’t even meant to be humans here. When Asgard’s ambassadors had last visited the city of Arlathan the immortal elves above ground and powerful dwarves below it had been the only inhabitants.

He glanced at Varric, short and stocky as any dwarf, but with no magic and no fear of being above ground. And Lavellan, no longer tied up, standing next to Leliana with a short bow in her hands. She was shorter than any elf he'd ever seen. Arlathan's elves were said to have been even taller than the Alfheim ones. Solas stood off to the side, suspiciously tall and broad shouldered.

Admittedly it had been so long ago, even by Asgardian standards.  Odin had only been newly crowned when he visited the Elvhen, whose empire was older even than Asgard, the Eternal Realm itself. Apparently the two powers hadn’t gotten along and diplomatic ties were eventually abandoned. That had been millennia before Loki’s birth. He had only heard tell of Thedas because it was a magical anomaly.

When Frigga had first begun teaching him magic she had mentioned a planet where magic flowed freely through the fabric of reality itself. It was outside of Yggdrasil so the magic wasn’t entwined in the roots of the great Tree, it was free to flit through the air, giving birth to spirits and wisps and great marvels unrivalled in all the galaxy.

This sad and dirty mortal realm, with its magic locked behind a choking veil, was a sad substitute. How very disappointing.

While Loki had been looking around and observing the curious misery around him, Lavellan had approached. Cassandra and Leliana were deep in an argument with some grasping human, and paid them no mind.

“Did you do this?” Lavellan asked quietly next to him. “Did you cause the explosion?”

“Would I tell you if I had, accomplice mine?” Loki replied, smiling down at her. She scowled back. “You certainly didn't do it.” She wasn’t magical at all. What kind of elf did that make her?

“No, I didn't, and they know it.”  She held her bow tightly and gave him a meaningful look. “I will not take the punishment for your crimes.”

He was tempted to roll his eyes.  “I didn't destroy the temple.” Probably. He wasn’t above causing havoc, but to what end? What did he care for the human affairs of Thedas? Outside of the Nine Realms Fate was not woven into the same eternal tapestry; this planet affected none but itself. It was why ties between Arlathan and Asgard had been permitted to fall by the wayside.

“How would you know, even if you were the culprit?” she asked. “If you are to be believed than you barely remember your name, let alone what you were doing at the time of the explosion. And if you are lying, then it is because you are guilty.”

He scoffed.

“Those are the only options, little Lavellan?”

“Do not speak down to me, Shemlen.” She bit out.

“Well, you are very short.” He returned his focus to Cassandra. The humans thought they were in charge. He would let them believe that, for now.

“Andruil, grant me strength.” Lavellan ground out.

“You expect much of your gods.” He remembered the accounts of Andruil. Lavellan would have been more likely to be hunted for sport than aided by the ancient huntress. What ever had happened to the ruling Elvhen?

“Do you not expect the same of your Maker?” She retorted.

“He isn’t _my_ Maker.” He said airily.

“Then who are you?” She looked at him with her brow drawn down. “If you have no people, no gods, and no family, what are you?”

He looked at her sharply.

“And what are you, little elf?” He bit out.

“Dalish.” She said impassively.

He scowled because he didn’t know what that meant.  

The arguing humans grew louder. The squabble sounded like it was about _directions_ of all things. Honestly, how did these people get anything done?

“If you are done asking for directions, Cassandra, might I ask we continue onwards?” He called. “Unless you expect the breach to seal itself, of course.”

He was rewarded with another noise of disgust but actual progress was made. At his insistence they took the twisting hidden path, instead of the just ploughing through the demons on the main road as Cassandra wanted. Soon enough the ruined temple itself opened up before them.

Petrified corpses littered the courtyard, their charred hands raised to fend off the first blast, others clenched in frozen agony. Red crystal stalagmites grew out of the ground at odd angles, casting an eerier glow on the crumbling temple walls. Varric recoiled from the crystals. In the centre of it all was the largest rift, and hundreds of metres above that, the massive Breach, feeding off of it.

_‘Bring forth the sacrifice.’_  

A deep voice echoed through the temple, bleeding out of the rift in flickering strands of magic.  It was a memory, imprinted on the raw substance of the rift. He knew he had been there, yet he couldn't remember it. The voice tugged at an empty place in his mind where memories ought to have been.

Demons still leapt through the rift, Envy, Despair and a large hulking Pride demon, they fell to the ground and charged at their party.

He drew the daggers he had found on the way up and with a small push of magic flame licked across the blades. That someone had dared to tamper with his mind made him angry and his aim true. Arrows rained down upon their enemy, launched by Lavellan and the archers lining the higher walls, and Varric who leapt and rolled across the stone floor with surprising dexterity. Solas threw magic at the demons, a myriad of weak but complex spells, while Cassandra bashed in heads with her shield and swung her sword without hesitation.

_‘Help me! Somebody help me!_ ’ And old woman's voice cried out from the rift, a plaintive wail laced with panic. It carried the same lilting accent as Leliana.

_‘What is this_?’ He straightened at the sound of his own voice, indignant and laced pained.

_‘Slay the intruder and commence the ritual.’_ The first voice echoed again, dismissive and irritated. It certainly wasn't Solas's voice, but the old elf's power fluctuated through the air, trembling around the rift. There was a brief flash in the air, magic surging from the rift, and for a single instant a vision formed in his mind. The anchor flared in his hand.

Then the moment passed and he rolled away from an Envy demon. Then he leapt forward and stabbed it in the abdomen and tore the blade up through its heart, if it indeed had one.

"Close the rift!" Cassandra called, fending off the electrically charged whips of the pride demon and then bashing its brains in. “Close it!"

Sprinting passed the blast of a screeching despair demon, he held up his hand, the anchor flaring. He would have turned invisible, but he felt the stores of his magic wouldn’t be enough. Instead he stood boldly in the centre of the ruin, his hand held up to the rift feeding a massive spark of magic drawing the rift in on itself.  His head spun from the drain.

It surged and then with a slam, the rift snapped shut. It sent out a blast up to the Breach above, and Loki’s vision blackened. His legs gave out and the last thing he knew was a mouth full of gravel.

 

* * *

 

Three days later Solas sat with a book in the little room provided for him at Haven. His eyes had stopped following the words.

The Breach was stable now, but still open. Loki had passed out after sealing the smaller rift beneath it, and he had spent the last couple of days tensely waiting for him to wake up again. If the Asgardian could arrange to actually stay conscious for more than two hours at once Solas would greatly appreciate it.

He could have fled in the meantime. He probably should have. But Loki knew far too much, and to leave now might draw more attention than he could afford. He could just kill the Asgardian while he slept and be done with it. But he heard what the humans whispered, ‘the Herald of Andraste’ they called him, some kind of saviour sent by the Maker in their hour of need. No, it was too late now; if he was going to kill Loki he should have done it before he woke in the first place.

Behind him the door swung open and the Asgardian in question strode in. He looked around leisurely, as though he hadn’t just barged into someone’s quarters, his eyes sweeping the room with amused indulgence. Finally his gaze settled on Solas, and a broad grin fixed itself to his face.

“Seeker Cassandra is waiting for you,” Solas said tersely, snapping his book shut.

“She can wait a little longer,” He replied, still grinning and watching him.

"Did you have something to say or are you here merely to stare?" he knew it was a mistake even as he spoke. Loki’s grin just grew. Now he knew that he was unnerved and irritable.

“Fen'Harel,” he finally said with a low bow that reeked of mockery.

“Your Highness," he replied, keeping back his sneer. He had never liked Odin or any of the Asgardians, really. They were too self-satisfied with themselves and their own greatness. Just like the Evanuris, in the end.

"I see we understand one another.” Loki said.

"Why are you here, princeling?" He stood and returned his open stare. “After all these years what interest does Asgard have in Thedas?"

"None whatsoever,” he shrugged and idly disturbed the herbs neatly arranged on the desk. “I am simply given to travelling, and the stories of Arlathan were so very enchanting. A shame they weren't true.”

Solas scoffed. "If Asgardian memory serves, then Arlathan was everything you were told. But even the mighty may fall, if they are not careful.”

"Only to be found hiding behind mortals and hoping nobody looks at them too closely?" He asked, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Quite." Solas picked up his staff and leaned on it with an unhurried air. Loki was young for an Asgardian. He hid it well, and the weight of heavy burdens on his shoulders aged him further, but to Solas’ eye he could be no older than a thousand years. Solas had been playing this game for more than five times that, even if he had been sleeping for a large portion of it.

"You do not live up to your Father's name, Odinson," he observed quietly, testing the waters.

He stiffened at the name. It was barely perceptible, but Solas saw and stored it away as useful information.

"I think you'll find I have far exceeded his expectations." He replied with a studied calm.  

"Then he did not expect much." Solas watched his shoulders tense before he squared them defiantly.  Whatever the cause, it was an interesting reaction. "Has weakness and vagrancy become the norm in Asgard?"  

"I have more power than any elf on Thedas." He lifted his chin and looked down at him with simple belief in his own grandeur over anyone else’s, and that was less interesting. As arrogant and self-assured as any other Asgardian then.

“Yes, I imagine the one currently wielding that power is delighted.”  Solas replied dryly.

“You would know better than anyone.” Loki’s voice dropped and his smile became sharper. Solas could have sworn. “Thedas doesn't concern me,” the Asgardian continued, stepping closer to him, “If it's denizens wish to tear it apart at the seams, that's hardly my problem, but I am curious. The Veil stinks of your magic, and so does the gaping hole torn in it. Is chaos alone your goal, Wolf, or have you some greater scheme?"

“I do not owe you answers.” He turned away dismissively.

“I think you'll find that you do.” Loki said his voice low and threatening. “Your pawn was free to unleash as many demons as he wished, but now he has taken what is _mine_ and if you think I will simply sit by-”

He spun back to face him. “He is no agent of mine.”

Loki gave a bark of laughter.

“I had hoped to slay Corypheus.” Solas said, scowling at Loki, at Corypheus, at himself. “It appears he was stronger than I anticipated.”

“So he took your power and left you wandering amidst the mortals.” He spoke almost pityingly, but there was no pity in his eyes. Instead there was frustration.

“I let him have the Orb because it should have destroyed him.” He didn’t know why he was explaining himself and he looked at the Asgardian suspiciously.

“So it _is_ your fault.” Loki’s smile was unpleasant.

“Does it matter who is to blame?” he asked, “Corypheus has the bulk of both your power and mine, locked away within the Orb.”

Loki’s smile turned into a scowl. Had he hoped Solas wouldn’t notice he was largely powerless? Oh yes, he was definitely young.

“How did it take my power?” he asked, aiming for an unbothered manner but falling short.  

“That is what it is designed to do, to store power. If you did not wish to use it, you should not have touched it,” Solas said, looking at the now dim anchor on his hand. He wouldn’t pretend to be sorry. Loki had been an inconvenience, but now he was an opportunity. “Shall we argue over it, or retrieve what is not meant for mortal hands?”

Loki stepped back and raised a brow at him.

"Independently neither of us can destroy Corypheus,” he said to the unasked question.  “We need not be enemies.”

“Oh? Shall we work together then? United in our cause, sharing strength and information?” There was laughter in Loki’s voice. He bounced between moods unexpectedly and with alarming alacrity.

Young. Temperamental. And impossible to predict.

“I understand this world far better than you, and you have greater sway with the humans,” Solas said simply.

“Ah, so it profits me to trust you?” he asked with both eyebrows raised.

“It would profit both of us to fight together.”

"How can I say no to such an offer?" Loki’s smile was wide and full of teeth.

"Then we do understand one another." Solas allowed himself a smile as he held out his hand to the young prince. It was a human tradition, shaking hands, quaint and newfound in the world of politics.

“May the Norns guide us, my friend,” Loki shook his hand, his eyes glinting with laughter and something far sharper. “And may our enemies ever provide a worthy challenge.”

“I do not doubt it.”


	3. Questing

"Are you sure it was wise to leave Solas behind?" Cassandra asked, stepping over a fallen log. "He appears to have some understanding of the rifts."

Loki led the way through the Hinterlands with the sun beginning to dip behind the Frostback Mountains. Varric followed Cassandra, and Lavellan brought up the rear.

"We closed the rift in the Hinterland outskirts without his assistance," he said, irritated that Cassandra doubted him. He had the anchor, not Solas.

"I suppose," Cassandra allowed, still sounding doubtful.

He had intentionally left the old elf back at Haven. They might technically be allies for the moment, but he needed some time to think, to take stock of his surroundings without the Dread Wolf watching and offering distracting comment.

He knew better than anyone that a god of lies and rebellion wasn't to be trusted.

"You are uneasy, Seeker?" Varric asked, only slightly goading.

"It is none of your business, dwarf."

"Come now, Cassandra," Loki said, openly goading. "Don't be coy."

She huffed in disapproval. He could see why Varric irritated her so much – it was a lot more fun than poking Lavellan.

The Dalish elf was silent at the back of their little party, her eyes scanning the lightly wooded area around them. The rest of the group could have been statues for all the attention she gave them. Varric said it was a Dalish thing.

"I wonder who you might be," Cassandra said after several minutes of walking in silence. "Your reaction to the apostates warring at the crossroads was… troubling."

"Oh?" He hadn't reacted much at all. What did he care if assorted mortals chose to murder each other?

"You are a mage, yet you care nothing for the rebellion. You don't care about the circle or the Templars either."

"Are you going to accuse me of being from Tevinter again?"

"Whoever you are, it is clear you are not from here. And you are nobility," she said, nodding decisively.

"That is clear, is it?" He looked back over his shoulder at her.

"I have lived in Orlais for a decade. I know the signs."

Varric laughed.

They kept their eyes peeled for somewhere to make camp. The day had been long and sealing rifts was exhausting work. He alone could seal them, and there was no lack of rifts. But why he, the oh-so-important Herald of Andraste, the only one capable of sealing rifts, was expected to do so much busy work was beyond him. Surely Leliana could find at least one of the remaining faithful to pick elfroot and slay goats for starving peasants who didn't appear to be doing anything anyway. Most of the requests the mortals gave him he ignored. The farmers could chase down their own missing livestock.

"There is a place to make camp," Lavellan spoke up, pointing to an opening protected by a rocky overhang. One would think she was announcing a death or declaring a war, with her brow so heavy over her eyes.

She was dour enough to rival Hogun the Grim.

He didn't know why she hadn't left. Cassandra and Leliana had both given her permission to do so, yet she remained. Whatever she thought she was up to, she fought well and knew her way through the wilderness, and assistance would be necessary until he regained more of his strength.

It looked as though the weather would turn on them, so they set up camp quickly.

The equipment they were provided was hopelessly outdated. The strange aversion to magic – which apparently most of Thedas suffered from – was visible in almost everything. They could have easily enchanted their tents to be waterproof, but no. Instead, they spent months treating the canvas, drying it out, and then repeating the process every couple of years when rain started leaking through anyway.

He took one look at his tent and enchanted it anyway.

Cassandra shook her head but refrained from commenting.

"So, Loki," Varric began, dragging a piece of fallen log over to the magically lit fire, "what's your story?"

Cassandra looked up at the question.

"I don't remember," he said offhandedly as he took off his boot and shook out a couple of loose pebbles. That was his story, and he was sticking with it.

Varric scoffed. "Come on, at least put some effort in."

"You think I'm lying?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It doesn't matter if it's true; it's boring as dirt." Varric sat on his log as though it was the most comfortable couch in the realm. "At least pretend something interesting and hard to disprove happened. It'll keep the chantry gossiping and chasing their tails for months."

"What would you recommend?" Loki asked, open to suggestions on more appropriate cover stories. Or wildly inappropriate cover stories, given what little he know of the dwarf.

Varric hummed in thought. Lavellan handed him a pack of rations and then walked off, her bow still slung over her shoulder. Loki watched her slink away from the clearing and wondered what she was up to.

"Let's see. Bastard son of a chevalier," Varric offered. "And you don't want to name them out of propriety. You can get years of intrigue out of that one."

Loki nodded sagely at the suggestion, and Cassandra choked on her rations.

"Or maybe an Antivan pirate," Varric suggested with a broad smile. His eyes drifted off to the sky as he spoke. "You can tell them you went to Haven seeking redemption."

"Oh, I like that one," Loki said, twirling a piece of petrified jerky around his fingers. "After years of pillaging, trickery, and lies, I crawled to your religious summit that I might turn over a new leaf." He smiled bitterly at the absurdity of it.

"Absolutely not," Cassandra said. "We are not pretending he is a pirate."

"Where's your sense of drama?" Varric asked, spreading his arms wide.

"No, she's right. It's too incriminating," Loki said with a sigh. "What about just a humble Ferelden peasant, on pilgrimage to Andraste's resting place?"

Cassandra snorted and went back to her food.

"It would infuriate the Orlesians, but I doubt you could sell it in the first place," Varric said with a doubtful tilt of his head.

"Why ever not?" he asked, putting on one of his sharpest smiles. "Do I not just scream 'uneducated local'?"

"You definitely scream something," he replied, shaking his head.

"Perhaps I'm long lost royalty," he mused. He was probably getting too much into the spirit of the exercise, but it had a very long week. He'd been king of Asgard for seventeen hours only four days ago. "A misplaced heir, wandering the wilderness. Exiled, perhaps?"

"Now you're getting into it," Varric said, tossing him a bottle of disgusting alcohol they'd found in a cave somewhere. "But unless you're another bastard son of Cailan, most local royalty are accounted for. And you look nothing like a Therin heir."

"A shame." He sighed dramatically. "I suppose I won't be claiming any nearby thrones then. Not by way of inheritance at least."

Cassandra looked at him curiously but didn't say anything.

Lavellan returned and silently started rummaging through her pack for rations.

"Where did you go?" Loki asked, still looking at his drink.

She didn't answer.

He looked up.

"Where did you go, elf?" he asked again in a low voice.

She graced him a frown. "Dalish business."

"The Dread Wolf shrine, right?" Varric said quickly, offering her a disarming smile.

She ducked her head and sat next to him. Apparently dwarves were not guilty of whatever crimes she believed humans to be complicit in.

"I would not camp here without paying proper respect," she said.

Ah. The wolf statue they had passed. It had been heavily cracked, one of its ears missing. Forgotten. Uncared for. In the middle of war-torn human lands. And stained with thousands of years' worth of pigeon droppings.

"Who is the Dread Wolf?" he wondered aloud.

"Varric is the storyteller," Lavellan said, focusing on her food.

"You think the dwarf has a better understanding of elven history than the Dalish?"

"Oh no," Varric said, holding up his hands, "don't drag me into that."

She sighed and fixed him with steely look. Then she looked around the camp and out at the woods and fallen rocks beyond.

"Fen'Harel," she began in a low voice, as though afraid of being overheard, "the god of betrayal and rebellion, the Bringer of Nightmares. He Who Hunts Alone." She rubbed her left wrist, where the skin was covered by an archer's vambrace. She looked at the three other campers watching her. "The Dread Wolf."

She was surprisingly dramatic for somebody who didn't normally emote beyond angry and offended.

She wove a story of Fen'Harel and the legend of the slow arrow. In the tale, an elven village asked the Dread Wolf to kill a great monster.

"But he took one look at the slumbering monster and knew it was stronger than him." She was really getting into it, looking at the listening non-elves without resentment for the first time since he had met her. Her enthusiasm was contagious and even Cassandra, who thought very little of Dalish legends, was absorbed in the tale.

"Instead of fighting, he loosed an arrow into the sky. The villagers found him and asked how he would save them. 'When did I say I would save you?' he replied and left. That night the monster awoke and attacked the village. It killed the warriors and all the adults and elders. Then it moved on to the children and opened its mouth wide to eat them." She paused dramatically. Silence reigned over the campsite. An owl hooted in the woods beyond.

"The arrow of Fen'Harel fell from the sky at that moment and landed in its mouth," she continued. "The monster fell dead, having never seen the falling arrow. The children wept for the dead, but they also made an offering of thanks. Fen'Harel had done exactly as the villagers asked and killed the monster with his cunning."

"What a terrible story!" Cassandra exclaimed.

Lavellan shrugged, and the spell was broken. "He is the god of deception. Making a deal with the trickster rarely ends well."

Loki considered objecting. Then he considered agreeing. Instead he said nothing.

"But what is the point of it?" Cassandra asked, offended at the story's conclusion. "They asked a demon for help, then everyone died, and the children were thankful?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Seeker." Varric waved away her summation. "They didn't want to fight the beast any more than he did. He was clever enough to kill it anyway, but someone has to die in these kinds of stories. That's just how they work."

"It is a warning. He agreed to slay the beast, as requested. He said nothing about saving them," Lavellan said, rubbing her wrist wearily. "Words can be twisted, and we may hear what we wish to hear, instead of the truth. A simple misunderstanding can mean death if we are not careful."

"A worthy tale then," Loki said. He wondered if there was any truth to it. The Fen'Harel he had once heard of was nothing like the reviled beast the Dalish described.

"I suppose," Cassandra said, grudgingly letting the point drop.

"Thanks for sharing that, Snapdragon," Varric said.

Lavellan smiled faintly and went back to her food. Loki finished his meal and thought about the cracked old wolf statue.

* * *

Solas left the apothecary in Haven and soaked in the afternoon light. The human who made the potions was rude at the best of times and openly hated elves when in a bad mood. He turned his face up to the sun, weary from dealing with the grating shemlen. The light glistened soft and golden off the snow around him, almost enough to counteract the vile green hole in the sky.

The 'Herald of Andraste', a title Loki had shamelessly adopted since the Inquisition had been declared, had only just returned from another day of venturing through the Hinterlands. So far he refused to take Solas anywhere. It was frustrating, but not overly so. Loki's absence was still an opportunity.

The ranks of the Inquisition were slowly filling up. A chantry cleric now supported them. A boisterous Qunari and the mercenary company who followed him had offered their services and were now doing their best to exhaust the tavern's ale supply. Menial workers joined the cause in droves, some claiming religious duty, others simple employment or desperation. Most of them were elves – overlooked, commonly slandered elves to whom the humans paid little attention.

Solas sat on a packed mound of snow and propped his staff on his shoulder, just a tired hedge mage worn down by the chaos. The elven servant who tidied Loki's rooms walked by, still busy working.

Her fingers tapped the side of the box of cleaning supplies she held, but her eyes remained on the path ahead of her.

No news then. Perhaps some of his other agents had something to share.

The tavern door across the path opened. Warm light and a tangled chorus sung by jovial drunks spilled out into the cool afternoon. Lavellan stepped out with a faint smile on her lips and her bow nowhere in sight.

She saw him and approached with a guarded look on her face. He rose from his mound of snow.

" _Aneth ara_ ," she greeted with a small smile.

He wanted very badly to correct her pronunciation but restrained himself.

"Greetings, _Da'len_."

She frowned at the term. None of the shemlen appreciated the implication that they were little, or young.

"You enjoy the tavern?" He nodded at the building behind her. She always seemed to be in there, although she never appeared drunk.

"The bard sings such tales," she said, blushing. "Her voice is beautiful."

"It is a wonder you can hear it over the cries of Iron Bull's chargers."

"They sing exciting tales as well, though not in the same way."

He could hear a shouted chorus shake the tavern walls.

She shifted her weight and looked down. "I hear you can see things in the Fade. Things from the past?"

"Word spreads quickly," he replied.

"Loki mentioned it."

Of course he did.

"Have you seen Arlathan?" she asked, childlike curiosity in her voice. It was unlike her. "Do the memories stretch back so far?"

"I have seen echoes of Arlathan, the heart of Elvhenan – as the spirits remember it."

"Could I see? Could you teach me to see Arlathan too?"

"It is only possible for a mage."

"My Keeper then, or her First."

"To what end?" he replied coolly. He had wasted far too much time trying to explain the truth to the Dalish already. "I thought the Dalish already understood the past better than anyone."

"Please!" Her voice rang with desperation. Then she composed herself and looked down. "All I ask is for a glimpse."

"What if you did not like what you saw? What if the past is nothing like how you picture it?"

"I would rather see it and know the truth than close my eyes and cling to lies," she said with indignation, straightening her back and looking him in the eyes again. "Our lives are built on what we remember. We have treasured these stories for thousands of years and long dreamed of something more, but all we have is legends. Please. I only want to see what is real."

Her need for answers was palpable, and he couldn't condemn that. But neither could he tell her the truth. Evhenan, though great, had been a hideous creature in its own way. No Dalish would accept that. "I am sworn to help close the Breach. Afterwards, perhaps."

Her shoulders slumped. Then she stood straight again, and her eyes hardened. "I apologise."

"For what?"

"Pestering you with my questions." She nodded in stiff apology. "You have made your opinion of the Dalish perfectly clear. I will not bother you again."

She turned and stalked away through the beaten snow.

He sighed and hung his head. Was it right to punish someone who only wanted to understand?

"Lavellan," he called. She paused and looked back. "I do not mind your questions. It is admirable that you wish to learn."

"I do not know whether to envy you or pity you," she said, wistfully watching him. "You have no clan. You are alone. But you are free to see and learn as you like."

"Do not envy me, _falon_ , but I do not deserve your pity either."

She approached him again, more hesitant this time.

"Will you tell me about any of the things you have seen in the Fade?"

He sat on the mound of snow again and nodded at the spot next to him. She sat and listened attentively.

* * *

Loki flung open the door to Solas' room. It was still dark, but he could see well enough.

"Wake up, wolf!" he said when he saw the shape stretched out on the sleeping mat, huddled under a pathetic excuse for a blanket.

Solas frantically jerked awake, his hand snapping towards his staff and magical fire licking along his fingers before he remembered where he was and realised who had just barged into his room.

"Do not call me that." He glowered at Loki, but extinguished the flames.

The Asgardian smiled in return. "Solas then, my favourite little hedge mage."

He stood, radiating irritation, and threw one of his dirty pelts over his shoulders. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We are leaving for Val Royeaux, and you shall be joining us," Loki said, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. His smile stretched across his face, showing his teeth. "We need to make a fine first impression."


End file.
